All Along the Watchtower
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 8: It feels like a stroke of luck when Sam and Dean are offered to stay in a former hotel. But the misleading peace turns into a trap. Now the voices in Dean's head turn out to be more than voices after all.
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 8: All Along the Watchtower

Authors: Annj and Pinkphoenix1985

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Summary: It feels like a stroke of luck when Sam and Dean are offered to stay in a former hotel in the middle of the woods outside of Cleveland. But the free lodging and the misleading peace turn into a trap when a mysterious storm all but takes them hostage. Now, of all times, the voices in Dean's head turn out to be more than voices after all.

**PART ONE**

Heavily leaning against the Impala, Sam held his aching middle while he watched Dean talk to the owner of the youth hostel. He had just taken one helluva beating from a very considerate poltergeist who'd kindly had flung Sam across the room, slamming him into an ancient grandfather clock. Sam had come through, albeit with a bruised middle whereas the grandfather clock wasn't so lucky.

Sam sighed to himself—this was supposed to be one of those "easy" hunts where they arrived with all input they needed, did some salting and burning and, voila, the hunt was over. One more happy customer with a supernatural-free youth hostel. That was the idea—in reality, they had ended up fighting with a super-pissed-off poltergeist who didn't like that they had come to get rid of it and had a sick affinity to throwing things with Sam's weight and dimensions through the air.

Sam knew Dean was also sporting some lovely purple and blue bruises. Sighing again, he wished that his brother would just hurry up, so that they could get on the road and find a motel so they could heal in peace and lick their wounds before their next hunt.

Lost in his thoughts, he jumped as Dean approached him sporting a wide smile and dangling a set of keys that looked massive and old.

_That smile? Never a good thing_, Sam contemplated, not sure whether he wanted an answer to the next question. "What did you do? Steal his dungeon keys?"

"Well, Sammy, what do you say to the chance of having a huge house all to ourselves for the next week?"

"Sounds like heaven," Sam replied as he frowned, "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Greg..." Dean motioned to the old man who was waving at them with an old handkerchief. "...was so grateful that we got rid of the poltergeist and saved him from having to close down this hostel that he gave us the keys to his old hostel." Dean explained theatrically as they got into the Impala. "It's just few miles outside Cleveland. Maybe an hour drive. Whaddaya say? Am I awesome?" Dean grinned over the roof of the car.  "Sure, bona fide awesome." Sam mocked. Good things never happened to them. That was a given. Why should this be any different?

Dean shifted to look at him as they settled in the car and—ignoring Sam's scepticism—added, "But the best thing is, the place is rumoured to be haunted so it really seems to be right up our alley, don't you think?"

Sam just groaned. "Dean, we just finished a hunt. We need to heal some before we take on another one."

"Sammy, Sammy. Don't you trust me? Greg said that while there are rumours of the place being haunted, there haven't been any sightings whatsoever, so we're good."

"Yeah, because this statement usually ends up wrong, right?"

Sam bit his lip as he looked at Dean who looked like he was a little boy in a candy shop. Sam rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless, knowing he had long lost. They _did_ need a place, after all, to recuperate from their injuries and a free "possibly haunted" place was still a free place. Their budget would be thankful.

"Okay." He nodded as Dean gave a happy whoop and started the Impala, mumbling under his breath, "Next time, I say, we save a Hilton. And I want a Jacuzzi."

-o-

They stocked up on supplies before heading into the outskirts of town. They hadn't met another car for over half an hour when they turned into a dusty driveway with potholes that seemed deeper than the Grand Canyon, leading up to a large house. It was situated far away from any kind of civilization and so secluded that Sam doubted that there was even electricity available. He glanced at Dean who glanced back at him. As one, they shrugged sceptically. For the next week or so, this would be home sweet home.

Sam got out and walked around the Impala to join Dean as he closed the car door, glancing up at the house. His arms were crossed in a casual way and he nodded appreciatively.  It was two stories high at its peak. Two rectangular minarets with round rooftops towered above the main structure and the whole building had a strangely asymmetric look. The bricks of the walls were of good condition, but the paint was peeling a bit, revealing dark red bricks like muscle in a damaged body.

Nature had started to claim its wealth back and trees were growing unhindered, brushing their arms against the private space of the walls. Bushes, once neatly trimmed, were expanding wildly, barricading paths and windows. It almost looked like the house was crouching shyly behind nature. The little roof covering the path leading up to the entrance was almost gone. The front windows were dirty and sad looking. It was quite obvious that no one had been there to clean and take care of the house in a very long time. Some scattered huts, more ruins than actual buildings, were situated in wide circles around the main house.

Sam sighed and turned slightly towards Dean. "You're sure that he said no actual sightings? This does look like the perfect setting for a horror flick." Somewhere in the distance, a crow was cawing as if for confirmation and Sam arched his eyebrows.

"That's what he said." Dean replied, unconcerned, as he turned to go to the trunk of the car to get their gear.

"Well, I think he's a liar." Sam said as he joined Dean as they gathered their stuff. "Or in deep denial."

"Oh, come on Sammy, doesn't it look all comfy? Just like one of those Agatha Christie books you love to read."

"I'm not twelve any more." Sam snorted. Dean could be so childish sometimes.

"Anyway, he should know about any potential hauntings. We just helped him to get rid of a mean poltergeist in his youth hostel." Dean replied as he led the way to the front door. Sam followed him, keeping a wary eye out for anything that decided to fall on them - either roof, branch, balk or pissy ghost.

Sam knew that they both felt like having a break and being offered a free cabin to stay at for as long as they needed was pure heaven plus almost unheard of in their line of work. Even if the house was really haunted, a quick salt'n'burn should take care of it, leaving them with an empty house to squat in for as long as they needed to recuperate and start to gear up for whatever headed in their direction next.

Because there would be a next. And a next after. And Sam had the bad feeling that it wouldn't get easier.

Dean had already reached the front door. He looked at Sam one last time as he inserted the key into the rusty keyhole. The door swung open with a screeching sound, and they were greeted with a stuffy twilight and a mouldy smell. Dust particles danced in the scarce sun rays and cushioned their steps.

To their left, there was a small room behind a sliding glass door that had probably once been used as the reception now was milky and cracked so that they couldn't see much behind it. A stairway leading to the upper floors and hallways curled upwards from both sides of the entryway. Just to be on the safe side, Dean got the EMF meter out of his pocket.

"Honey, I'm home!" Dean yelled in a sweet-laden voice and grinned heartily when Sam rolled his eyes, regretting this whole thing already. "I have the bad feeling we were sent here to do the..." Sam begun and stumbled over a hat stand that had fallen over. "... cleaning." He underlined that with a throaty cough.  They decided to split up so that they could cover more ground and secure the house. Dean headed upstairs while Sam started to explore downstairs. With measured movements, Sam crossed the rooms on the ground floor. Most of the furniture was covered in splotchy sheets and an eerie silence loomed in every room, making Sam's footsteps sound louder than they really were.

In the room leading off the kitchen, Sam came across the generator, which—to his utter surprise—looked like it had been installed only recently. He moved the lever up and down and the machine coughed a few times before rattling to life. Promptly, a few overhead lights flickered on, one by one, the staticky sound of them whizzing over his head. Pleased, Sam turned off the flashlight and headed back toward the entrance hall so he could check the other side of the floor.  The condition of the furniture here wasn't much different from the other rooms he had seen so far, so when he stepped into a homey looking chamber that looked unusually clean and well-maintained, he stopped, mouth agape.  It was a library. The walls were covered with shelves that reached to the ceiling, each of them filled with books, books and more books. Sam went closer and took one in his hand. Then another one. Despite the tended-to feeling of the room, some of the books looked as rotten as the house itself, their substance turning to dust under his touch. A surprising number of others, though, had survived almost unscathed even though they looked older than the house. Enthusiastically, Sam started to take off the dust sheets from a couch, a writing desk and a stable-looking chair. A low coffee table made entirely of wood stood in the middle of the room, its surface engraved with scenes in an Indian style.

Sam randomly reached out lovingly caressed one of the books, longing to just curl up and read. The couch looked comfortable enough and he sighed to himself before setting aside some the book he was holding in his hands. He'd have enough time to go through them later. He glanced once more around the library and found some old newspapers and other scraps of history including some old vinyl music records. Sam picked up one of the dusty records and wondered if there was a player lying around so he could listen to them, well aware of the effect it would have on his brother.

Rummaging around in a few cabinets, Sam did find the player, with needle still intact. He set it up with the album of "Earth, Wind & Fire" before letting himself fall onto the couch. The music sounded foreign in the loneliness of the house and he didn't have to wait long until Dean came back, his face a painful grimace at the choice of music.  "What the hell, Sam?" Dean complained, his eyes wide. "Fuck, Sam! This not funny."  "What?" Sam asked, looking up smug, before preparing to get the room secured. "I like it here. Looks clean. At least clean of ghosties."  "Oh God," Dean groaned. "I'm in Soul Train library hell."

-o-

After Dean had fled to go through the rest of the house, he had determined that it was ghost free and started to ward the windows and doors of the rooms they were bound to use often. He found the pantry and, to his delight, sacks of road salt sitting in a corner. He heaved them upstairs and put salt down on every window. He took the additional steps of adding demon-repelling charms to the windowsills, floors, and ceilings. He decided that he and Sam could finish up salting the windows and doors downstairs together—at least as soon as his brother was kind enough to leave the library again which, Dean supposed, would take a while.  He had looked in every room, had checked every closet and had thought about how awesome it was to have enough space and bedrooms, no matter _how_ dusty, that for once they would be able to use a single, each. Good idea, Dean decided and rubbed his temples, fighting back the tiredness that was gripping him tight. His ears were ringing, but it was no big deal. Just a rise in his blood pressure from the activity. Nothing else.   Getting his game face back on, he returned into the library where Sam was already spreading their stuff on the table, Bobby's books on top.

"So, looks like you've found your happy place, huh, Sammy?" Dean said.

In response, Sam rolled his eyes and replied, "You seem unusually happy."

"Yeah, you should see the rooms. I think they're all honeymoon suites." He waggled his eyebrows. "I think we can each actually afford our own rooms. What do you say?" Dean grinned as he flopped down besides Sam glancing at the book titles.

"Our own rooms?"

Dean looked at his brother and expected an offended reply like _"Don't you like me any more?"_ but Sam merely shrugged his shoulder noncommittally, obviously not even listening to what Dean said. Not that Dean blamed him. Well, he DID blame him but he also knew that when Sam was in company of books, especially in such a high number, neither rawhead, ghoul nor black dog would be able to draw his brother's attention away from them—even if they were playing Poker ... wearing nothing but pink woollen hats. Dean chuckled at the imaginary picture and sat down in a chair with a high backrest, leaning his aching head against it, ignoring the fact that the ringing in his ears wasn't a ringing after all.

Over the past few days, Dean had been hearing more of the strange background noises and they had gotten louder and more detailed. As long as he was in a hunt, he could forget about them. Could push them in the darkest corner of his perception. But if his concentration slipped, he could easily make out words, whole sentences and even different voices. Sometimes he could hear his or Sam's name being spoken in urgent whisper. But anyway, they were just his imagination, right? Nothing else. Just the lack of sleep and too little to eat. _That must be it. Yes._ Denial was easy when the alternative would cost your sanity.

Of course, Dean was not stupid. And Sam was even less stupid which meant that Sam probably knew something was up as much as Dean knew that he couldn't hide it much longer. But until now, Dean had managed to keep the voices secret, even if it got harder every day.

It didn't matter, though. As soon as this whole thing (_phase...whatever_) was over, Dean would be his same old self. No need to bother Sam with his concerns. It was just a phase after all. A "Dean is going crazy"-phase, sure, but still a temporary phase. And letting Sam know all the details would make it more real—not to mention what it might do to Dean's "I'm the big brother" image that he still had to uphold, no matter what. And God knew, they had enough problems to deal with without having Sam freaking out over his crackpot sibling.

"Yeah, our own rooms. I mean, why not?" Dean snorted, "We're both grown-ups—well at least one of us." Dean smirked and Sam's left eyebrow shot upwards.  "Do I want to know who you're talking about?"

Dean gave his explanation with his version of Sam's puppy eyes.

Sam rolled his eyes and reluctantly agreed to the arrangement. "Fine, our own rooms. But don't come under my covers at night when you think there's a monster in your closet."  "You'll hear me kill it when that happens." Smirking, he added. "_Then_, I come crawling under your covers."  This time, Sam laughed and Dean felt giddy, almost like he was floating when his brother's laughter drowned any other voices he might hear.

With that decided, he and Sam headed out to finish putting salt on the windows of the rest of the house. Just to be on the safe side.

About twenty minutes later, they were settled in. Sam had brought the first aid kit from the Impala and they finished patching each other up from the fading bruises. Afterwards, Dean decided that he would try out the bath in one of the bathrooms and enjoy a well-deserved soak. Sam—after settling in a bedroom just across the hall from Dean's—headed back downstairs to read in the library.

-o-

The next few days flew by as if someone had put the fast forward button on the remote. They enjoyed the unexpected leisure time. Or at least Sam did. Dean, on the other hand was starting to get impatient and bored.

Still it was a nice change. They took turns at meals, using ancient pots and pants and ugly dinnerware, and equally took turns on bitching about it. Whenever Sam wasn't sleeping or eating or doing something as mundane as doing the laundry in one of the bathtubs Dean would find him in the library, skimming through the various reading material: Bobby's books as well as the ones he had found in the library. Dean thought that Sam was such a geek boy for finding it intriguing to read books which he didn't have to read for researching a haunting. How could Sam enjoy reading something other than skin mags for his entertainment was beyond Dean.

At night, Dean would sit beside Sam in the library, cleaning weaponry or sorting through their supplies. A fire was crackling in the open fireplace, shushing away the chilly November cold. It was almost surreal, Dean mused to himself. Usually they didn't have the time to just _be_. Although the truly surreal moment took place one night when Sam actually decided to make tea. _Tea, _for God's sake. Dean had sighed dramatically and called Sam _Mrs. Brady_ for the rest of the evening, which Sam had countered with a laugh and "'Night John-boy." Dean had cringed. The name waking to many bad memories.

It was another late evening when Dean absent-mindedly hummed a Metallica tune as he happily took guns apart and cleaned them. He glanced over at Sam who was smiling while reading a huge tome of a book.

"What are you smiling at, geek boy?" He said looking over at Sam as he put down a gun part and grabbed a fresh piece of cloth to wipe his hands with.

"Nothing."

Dean smirked, "Nothing? It must have been a helluva nothing to put such a dreamy girly look on your face, Samantha!"

Sam chuckled at the sound of Dean so relaxed, then glanced towards the big bay window where he could see huge snowflakes starting to come down. Over the last days the weather had gotten worse. Wind had started to blow viciously, sending leaves tumbling and the house groaning. The winter finding its way into the season.

Sighing, Sam got up and turned to Dean, "I'm going to get more logs so we will be stocked up. Doesn't look like the weather gets any better. If this goes on we will be snowed in in the morning."

Dean nodded, already reaching for the next weapon.

After Sam had left the room, Dean put the cleaning utensils aside and walked over to the window, watching Sam walk over to the nearest hut which had turned out to be the wood storage shed. Sam's tall frame had some difficulties fighting the strong winds as well as the snow as he emerged from the hut with firewood and started his laborious trek back to the kitchen door.

As Dean watched he heard _"Dean"_ echo in his mind and his heart sank. He knew it had been too good to last. But, fortunately, nothing else was uttered. Somewhat relieved, Dean chalked it up to his imagination, as usual.

When Sam got to the door, Dean looked down past his brother and could have sworn that he saw a figure standing in the snow glaring at them. Quickly reaching out for a gun, Dean didn't even blink and the apparition was gone. He leaned against the window and rested his forehead on the freezing pane. He really needed to get more sleep if he kept on hearing and seeing things, but he couldn't ignore the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. At least the face hadn't borne any resemblancetotheir father.

Snow was falling heavily by the time Sam came back into the library with the wood, accidentally dropping some of it on the way to the fireplace. He put two large logs into the fire and tried to warm up his frozen hands by holding them close to the fire and puffing into them every other second.

Dusk was settling outside, creating shadows around the room. Crossing over to the fire to join Sam, Dean switched on the lights. Luckily, the generator was in excellent condition and the electricity had been stable until now. The only downside was that the house didn't have a working heating system which meant they had to keep the fire burning all day to have it warm. Still, a permanent chill hung in the air of most rooms except for the library.

As they huddled next to the source for warmth, the wind was howling outside. Dean worried when he noticed that Sam was still shivering slightly from his trip outside.

"Hey, man, why don't I go to the kitchen and make us some hot chocolate? With something extra for the big boys?" Dean said, taking the bottle of Jack Daniel from the table on his way out.

"Yeah, thanks." Sam answered, still trying to get warm and Dean regretted not having any marshmallows to go with Sam's hot chocolate.

In the kitchen, Dean quickly warmed up the milk. As he did, he looked out the window overlooking a little courtyard where the snow was still coming down. _"Dean, you should leave!" _echoed in his mind just as a figure outside came charging at the window, its shape more or less human and remarkably naked. Dean jumped back in shock while the lights started to flicker. A second later—his mind quiet again—Dean glanced through the window and saw nothing but ever falling snowflakes.

He tried to shake off the tenseness of having been momentarily poised for an attack and gathered the mugs of hot chocolate. He hurried back to the library to let Sam know what had just happened. This time, Dean was positive that he hadn't imagined it.

Sighing as he entered the library, he uttered to himself, "It was too good to be true."

He handed a mug to Sam who had turned to greet him.

"What's too good to be true?"

Dean hesitated long enough which caused Sam to burst out, "I knew it! Don't tell me the house is haunted after all. I _like_ it."

Shaking his head, Dean denied, "No, Sam. I don't... I just. I think I saw someone outside. A figure."

"A figure? It's not Dad, is it?"

Dean shook his head. "Only if Dad decided to get all nudist."  He almost laughed at Sam's appalled expression but instead kept talking, "When you went out to get the logs, I was watching you and I think I saw someone looking after you from the hut as you came back inside."  "Why didn't you say something?" Sam wanted to know. To Dean's surprise, it sounded neither reproachful for angry. Just curious.  "I don't know. I thought it was my imagination. But right now, in the kitchen, I saw it again. Something like a human shape. Could be a ghost but..."

"What?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling. It didn't look corporeal. And the form... scattered after that."

"Sounds like a ghost to me." Sam replied. "Maybe we should take a deeper look at the history of this place after all," Sam suggested now, a little bit more enthusiastically.

God, how Sam could look like that at the prospect of pouring through old books would always be a mystery to him. But at the same time, Dean was relieved. Sam was in his element and didn't miss a beat, diving into the research so they could figure this out. It felt good to have at least one constant in life even if it was Sam's geeky-ness.

Just as the thought crossed Dean's mind, a voice screamed in his head, the scream so loud that it echoed in his skull. He pressed his hands against his ears. Next thing he knew, Sam was by his side, holding him up and mumbling something.

_"RUN!"_ Someone or something in Dean's head yelled just as something heavy hit the roof above them, causing the lights to flicker furiously. Whatever it was it rolled down the roof as Dean lost his fight and surrendered to the blissful darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART TWO**

The first thing Dean was aware of was the soft mattress beneath him. The next was the noise that didn't have anything to do with the unwanted voices in his head.

"Turn off the freaking hair dryer!" Dean mumbled and made a grimace when Sam answered.

"Dean! Are you okay?" His brother's tone was sympathetic enough.

"I'm fine Sammy. Sorry."

"Sorry? Are you kidding me?" He didn't sound very sympathetic any more and Dean rolled his eyes under still-closed eyelids.

"Stop rolling your eyes. What the hell happened?"

"Too much greasy hamburgers and salty French fries?" It was worth a try but Sam huffed. _He_ didn't think it was amusing, obviously.

"Look, Sam. It's just a headache. Nothing worse. You should know what I'm talking about." Dean rubbed his temple for emphasis. "Mr. Migraine-guy."

"At least I don't do nose dives... at least not for a while now."

Finally, Dean opened his eyes and found himself still in the library. He was lying on the couch and that was something Dean was grateful for. Waking up on cold, hard floors so wouldn't have made things any better. Sam was half-sitting on the windowsill, his arms crossed in a distinctly impression of someone who had no intention whatsoever of letting go.

"_What_ is going on?" Sam asked and made a wide gesture that included the room, Dean and probably everything from Dean's birth till his heroic ending. "First you decide to get yourself your own room? Then you avoid my questions and now you ...faint? "

"I didn't _faint_." Dean said, indignantly, and Sam just stared at him. "And did we marry while I was unconscious?"

"Something is going on with you and I'm worried. So, would you please be serious?"

"I _am_ serious."

"Yes, seriously disturbed."

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed and regretted the fast movement with his head. He fell back into the pillow.

"How's your head?"

"Good."

"Liar!"

"Nosey bitch!" Dean smirked.

Still worry was shining in Sam's eyes and Dean put all his conviction into his next words. "I'm fine, I promise! Too little sleep, I suppose. So, what _is_ this noise?"

"Looks like the storm is heating up." Sam explained and stepped closer to the window to look outside. It had gotten dark. Dark enough so that Dean could see his brother's face mirrored on the dark surface of the glass and Dean felt himself almost get sick by all the secret-keeping. It wasn't because he wanted to keep his brother in the dark. It was... he didn't know exactly what it was. He was stupid. The plain old _stupid_ excuse and he knew it.

The wind buffeted the house with an unseen viciousness and the roof tiles and lose shutters were rattling and banging as if they sought entrance and shelter.

"You know, Dean," Sam began and Dean felt his stomach drop. He didn't like the tone of his brother's voice. Resignation and disappointment. "You know where to find me when you're ready to start talking."

Without another word, Sam turned around and left the room, leaving Dean behind who craved the unconsciousness he'd woken from to keep him from feeling like he had just betrayed his brother.

"Sam..." But he was already alone. "Sam, wait!"

The steps in the hallway stopped and returned slowly.

"What now? You want to tell me how paranoid I am? How obnoxious and..."

"You're right." Dean interrupted.

"With how paranoid I am?" Sam asked bitterly.

"No. I mean yes, but..." Sam was already on the verge of leaving when Dean propped his elbows against the cushions and sat up with a groan, willing his head to stay on top of his neck.

Sam made a worried face. "You want something against the headache?"

"No, I want you to listen."

"Okay." Mildly irritated, Sam came back into the room and did his best to look casual when he leaned against the door frame. "Talk!"

"How much do you take in an hour, Mr. Freud?" Dean joked and earned a raised eyebrow. "Okay, okay. You're right. There is something going on and I don't want you to freak out on me."

"Me? Freak out?" Sam huffed. "Freaking out is not in my repertoire."

"I'm hearing voices."

Silence.

"Okay, I'm freaking."

Dean rolled his eyes again and swung his legs over the edge of the couch to sit up entirely.

"What do you mean, you're hearing voices? Voices like Cohen's _Walk like an Egyptian_? Like a... catchy tune?"

"Ha, I wish," replied Dean.

"You mean _voices_?" It wasn't really a question.

"Yes, voices."

"What do they say?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "Well, I'm not sure most of the times. Mostly they're just murmurs and whispers. Like a bus station full of people and everyone is talking at once. I can hear them talk but I don't understand what they're saying."

Sam nodded, urging Dean to go on talking.

"Before I... before I..." Dean made face. "...took that nosedive, I'm pretty sure someone said _run_."

He looked up and watched Sam unfold his arms and knit his eyebrow. "Someone said run? Who?" And shook his head, bewildered. "And why?"

"Do I look like I would know?" The words came out more harshly than intended but Sam seemed not to care.

Dean was grateful for that. Diplomacy had never been his strength and his brother knew it. He listened to the roaring of the wind and the branches hitting against the glass. "I think it's the house."

Sam shook his head. "I don't believe that. This has been going on for weeks. Months even, hasn't it?"

Caught, Dean opened his mouth to deny it but a gaze from his brother brought him to his senses.

"Dude, don't insult me by trying to deny it, okay?"

Dean nodded. "Still, I think the house is making it worse." That, at least, was the truth and Sam accepted that.

"So, this house probably is haunted after all."

"No," Dean said. "I searched it. The EMF didn't even hiccup."

"Then maybe..." Sam started saying and stopped again when Dean let his still-aching head fall into his hands, his elbows leaning heavily on his knees. "Maybe we should deal with this later. I'll get you something for the pain. Then you rest, got it?"

Dean nodded and made his way up to his room, where Sam found him a few minutes later with two pills and a glass of water. Dean swallowed all of it in one big gulp before falling back into bed.

"I'll do some research in the library, okay? Sleep. We'll talk later," Sam informed him and made sure the windows were shut and the salt lines intact before he left Dean alone in the dark room.

Dean huffed. "Yes, definitely married."

-o-

The fire in the library was dancing like it had a mind of its own. The flames were reaching out in all directions, licking at the rough stone wall that was black from years of ashes and soot. Little fire worms were rising into the air before falling harmlessly on the floor a few inches in front of the fireplace. Sam stared at it, fascinated by its liveliness. And troubled by everything else.

So, Dean was hearing voices.

Sam had expected a lot of things. But his brother was hearing voices? Seriously, that was kind of bizarre.

He had always known that he and his family were different. And that insight didn't even include his father's turn to the dark arts. They had a different view on things, different priorities and remarkably different problems, that much was clear. So, why was it that Dean's confession hit him so hard?

The house around Sam groaned and shifted like it was a living being and with every new strong howling, the flames danced a little higher, projecting swaying shadows on the walls and book shelves.

Actually, it wasn't really the fact that his brother was hearing voices that made Sam cringe with apprehension. It was the fact that his brother hadn't felt the need to tell him about it. Hadn't trusted him enough to reveal that tidbit of information. _"Oh, by the way I'm hearing voices that tell me to run. Could you pass me the butter?"_

It hurt. Especially after last week, it hurt so much. Where was all that stuff about trusting each other and keeping no more secrets they had talked about after the latest incident with their father?

_'Dean_,' Sam decided '_is stupid_.' and felt a little better after that thought. A small smile was playing on the sides of his lips and for a moment he felt good just standing close to the fire and warming his hands.

It wasn't late, not even nine o'clock yet, which meant he wasn't tired and should use the chance to do some research. Bobby's books were neatly piled on one of the tables, looking almost lost between the large shelves positioned along the walls. Countless books were resting there, covered with dust and almost hidden behind thick, fluffy curtains of spidery webs. Besides the smell of rosiny wood, there was a layer of moldiness. Old paper and stale ink. Knowledge and wisdom captured in words. Deeply, Sam breathed in and felt his nervousness recede. Assiduously, he made sure the room was safe by checking the salt lines. After one last, distrustful look at the EMF he was convinced that tonight they would be safe for a change.

A few seconds later, his curiosity got the better of him and he randomly grabbed a handful of books and immersed himself into the pages.

The first books were novels, some known, some unknown. Some Jack London, Bram Stoker and Emily Bronte. Sam had read them all in either high school or college and one by one he put them aside. The warmth of the room made his eyes droopy and he yawned when he reached for a book on top of another stack. A piece of paper fell out of it and he caught it before it could get to close to the hungry flames. It was an old newspaper article about the building. More articles appeared when he opened the book, and he recognized it as an old guest log filled with mostly illegible hand writings and signatures. Some had glued photographs into it, showing happy families. Women with huge hats big as tires, men with old-fashioned bowlers, little boys and girl in sailor style with striped suits and petite dresses with large bows at the front. Apparently the house had served as an exclusive inn before it had been turned into a youth hostel.

It felt strange to have the evidence of the house's eventful past in his hands. Almost like the building was real, human…an old grandpa who was telling about his long lost youth. About how he grew up surrounded by happiness and love. Sam smiled about entries gushing about warm summer nights and bonfires, happy birthday family meetings and adventurous trips into the surrounding area.

The entries were dated on the late 20's and early 30's and stopped in summer 1936 without any hints of foul play. No sudden deaths, no mysterious accidents. Just a hotel offering a few merry hours somewhere in the Cleveland woods.

He skimmed through the pages, looking for something that would grab his attention. Nothing did.

After discovering three different guest logs, he decided to use another tactic. On the mantelpiece lay some leather-bound notebooks and after he glanced at them he recognized them as accounting ledgers. They seemed to be from a foundation that had used the hotel as its headquarters after it was no longer a business.

Still, nothing unusual. Numbers and facts. Some contracts on faded paper and more news articles about the idyllicly situated location. Information stopped sometime during the late 60's when the headquarters was moved back into the city.

The amount of information was endless. Sam would have to dig deeper.

The ghost of a headache had started to build behind his eyes but he ignored it. The stack of looked-through books grew and grew while the flames got smaller and weaker.

A shiver ran through his body, making the little hairs on his arms stand upright and he finally looked up to realize that the storm had even gotten worse. Quickly, he stood up to put more wood into the fireplace. The flames hungrily assimilated the provided food and warmth returned in the small room. The wind outside was reaching new levels of noise and the wall vibrated under Sam's finger when he leaned against it to pull himself up. It was somehow disturbing but when he glanced outside the windows, he didn't see anything but the wind-whipped trees being tossed around like bamboo twigs in a hurricane.

Back on his feet, his gaze fell on a small box that was positioned on the outer rim of the mantelpiece and almost hidden behind and under more books and loose papers. Carefully, he took down the garbage before he took the box in his hands.

The blotched hard paper looked old and dusty and when he removed the lid, the smell of herbs rose into the air.

This definitely looked more like things Sam and Dean should know about. A small bag that was lying inside had the distinct similarity with a hex bag but when Sam opened it, all he found were the seemingly innocuous sources for the smell: benign herbs, some dried flowers and tiny pebbles with little engravings on them.

For a moment, Sam considered putting the bag into the fire, no matter how harmless it looked, but he put the thought aside and dove into the material telling him about the wild 60's when the house was apparently the site for a new age hippie commune. Some posed photographs showed at least a dozen men and women, unshaven, unkempt and with flowers in their hair. Their faces were relaxed and smiling and Sam snorted. He recognized stoned people when seeing them. He had studied in Stanford after all.

"Those were the days, huh?"

He kept reading, taking notes as he went. His stomach clenching as he did. Maybe their stay hadn't been such a good idea after all. Maybe he should wake Dean and...

A shiver ran down his back and he turned around, expecting to see his brother. But he could see no one. But he was sure he had heard something—or someone.

Outside, the storm raged on and the fire kept ring-a-ring-a-rosing around the glowing logs.

-o-

Listening was something Dean had learned and loved to do when he was a kid. He had listened for his brother's breathing when the little boy was lying next to him, curled up in a tight little ball. He had listened to his father cleaning the guns early in the morning, only minutes before leaving. And had waited to hear the familiar rumbling of the Impala when his father was out on the hunt late at night and was due back any minute. Now, the distant sounds of Sam's awful music and the howling wind from outside accompanied Dean into a light slumber and he rolled on his unmade bed for a few minutes before sleep overtook him and dreams started to take over his mind.

It was one of those dreams when Dean knew was dreaming. It had a strange texture, a surreal vibe that made Dean think he had gotten himself a role in a new Tim Burton movie. The only thing missing were stuffed animals winking their beady button eyes at him. And the fact that this was definitely not a movie.

On the contrary. It was his room in the hotel they were residing in. But the walls felt sturdier and the ceiling higher, the wallpaper darker, the light flimsier. A hostile atmosphere hung in the air like a bad smell. Dean looked around...and stared at himself lying in bed. He stepped closer, slowly, as if he was afraid of waking himself up. The sleeping Dean's chest was rising up and down in calming regularity. So, obviously, he wasn't dead. Which really should have assured him but the new development did nothing to quell Dean's confusion. Unwillingly, he reached out almost touching his own face. He could feel the other Dean's breath against his fingertips and all of a sudden he realized...

It was quiet.

Strangely so.

There was no rushing in his ears. No whispers, no voices in his head. Someone had turned off the water faucet of weirdness and now the newly found silence settled down around him like dust after an explosion. His ears and his head felt like they were filled with cotton.

"This is new," he said, mostly just to see whether or not he had a voice here.

Even the sounds of the storm had receded to the background like waves crashing against a shoreline deep down on the coastline. He stood for a few more seconds next to himself, watching and trying to understand what he was seeing. And thinking he was really overdue for a haircut.

Slowly, he made his way around in the room, listening to his feet making hushed sounds on the parquet. He touched the cool walls, shadowed with light from the dim lamp that didn't seem to want to travel in these desolate surroundings. The window glass was icy under his fingers and when he watched outside, there was still a storm going on. Far away, he could see the trees bend violently in the face of the wind. The snowflakes, big and round as eyeballs, were spinning around and Dean regretted having chosen that special analogy to describe the natural spectacle outside. Because it amplified the strange feeling of being observed. Maybe not exactly _by_ the snowflakes but... something else.

"Hello?" he asked, not looking at himself because if his sleeping body answered, it would seriously have freaked him out.

When no one answered he slowly made his way towards the door through which he could see the flickering light of the library's fireplace. The reddish glow was rippling over the wallpaper, creating little wave-like movements that made the wall look like it was alive and stirring.

He reached the library after a few more steps and was relieved when he could see his brother sit on the table, reading...what else.

"Sam?" he asked tentatively, not really expecting any kind of reaction of his brother. There was none, so Dean came closer and looked over Sam's shoulder.

He was reading a handwritten book and the lettering was hard to read. More like the tracks of a small snake that had bathed in ink and accidentally shooed over the blank pages.

"How can you read this, Sammy?" Dean chuckled and to his surprise, Sam's head shot up, looking around with alertness. He put down the pen he was taking notes with and stood up, walking towards the window and staring out with a worried frown. Dean came after him, taking up space right behind his brother's right shoulder and following his gaze outside where the same picture greeted him of snow and darkness. Until...

Gasping, Dean took an involuntary step backwards when a shape hit the glass from outside. He thought he had recognized human outlines, a gaunt face with sharp lines and long, braided hair with feathers stuck in. The wind howled simultaneously, as if it was giving a painful cry to accompany the voiceless cry of the creature.

"So much for the house not being haunted, huh?" Dean mumbled and was mildly disturbed when Sam obviously hadn't taken any notice of what he had seen. His brother was still standing at the window, frowning slightly. Then he shrugged his shoulders and Dean jumped out of the way to avoid being run down by his very corporeal brother who went back to the table.

Only then did Dean realize that the feeling of being observed had not receded. On the contrary, the feeling grew by the second and when a voice, clear and loud rang into his ears, he could not suppress a yell. A very manly yell but still a yell.

_"Run!"_

Dean waited for a few seconds but when silence returned he cleared his throat and asked, "Who's there?"

_"You never listen."_

"Who do you think you are? My wife?" Dean shoved a thumb towards Sam's direction, acting as casual as he could without giving away how amazingly freaked out he was. "Already married."

No answer. Now, Dean was really starting to get pissed.

The scratching of Sam's pen on paper. The crackling fire. The howling of the wind.

Nothing else.

Dean could taste the air on his tongue, breathing in and out, in and out. How was he breathing anyway when his body way lying in bed, sleeping the slumber of the insane?

"Who! Are! You!"

_"You are one hard ass, aren't you?"_

Great, so now his subconscious was getting snippy on him.

Awesome!

With great trepidation, he pinched himself in the inside of his left arm and he hissed when the sharp pain made his nerves tingle. Anything to wake him up.

"As you wish..." The voice announced.

And with a great gasp for air Dean sat up straight in his bed, this time for real.

"Whoa..." Dean made another gasping sound and the air rushed out of him like he was a balloon stuck with a needle. He was back in his bed. The bed covers lay heavily on his legs and he fought them off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up fast enough to send the room around him in a spiral. "Whoa..." he repeated, though this time more because of the resulting head rush. "That was stupid."

A sense of deja vu took over, a feeling so overwhelming that Dean's mouth went dry. The same light was trying to hush away the darkness. The window showed the same scene. Even the snowflakes were the same ones he had seen in his dream. And the voice... there had been a voice. Not one of those voices that hid behind static but a clear one. And it had told him to...

Already he was running out of the room and into the library where he expected Sam to be sitting hunched over a volume, immersed in its boring-ness.

At least one thing was true. Sam _was_ still sitting on the table but his head was lying on his right arm, stretched out in front of him. Dean saw the steady rise and fall of his brother's shoulders, a sure sign of Sam's sound condition. Fast asleep.

"I told you these books were bad for you, Sammy," Dean whispered, not intending to scare his brother awake. "You and your neck will thank me in the morning." He neared his brother and shook his shoulder slightly. Sam though, didn't wake.

"Sam?" Dean said, this time a little bit louder. "Come on, dude. I know these books are boring but that doesn't usually mean they can send you in a coma."

Still, no reaction, and worry started to blossom in Dean. The heat of the fire at his back turned pressing and little pearls of sweat appeared on his temple. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched returned. Dean staggered under its impact.

"Dean, he won't wake up." The voice replied. And this time it came with a body. The body of a man who stepped from a dark corner as if he had been standing there from the very beginning. "I made sure of it."


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE**

Hastily, Dean grabbed his favourite gun from amongst the other weapons lying on the table where he had sat earlier to clean them. Back when he had still believed that this was a nice happy holiday they were having.  Those were the moments...  He pointed the gun at the stranger and growled, "Who are you?"

The stranger stayed silent and just stood patiently, looking almost curiously into the barrel of the gun as if he was it expecting to have Skittles or something equally harmless fall out of it.  "Who! The! Hell! Are you? And how do you know my name?" Dean asked again stepping closer to his brother and this way putting himself between the man and Sam. For just a second he glanced down at him, blissfully unaware of what was happening.  "What did you do to my brother?"  "Me?"

The man made the perfect facial expression of innocence, eyes wide open and brows curved as if they wanted to wander off on their own but Dean didn't buy it. Wouldn't buy it if it was Mother Theresa herself who had come back from the dead to save their sorry souls. He needed to protect Sam. Had to. And with his brother sleeping away the danger, Dean didn't even have to worry about Sam scolding _"What did I tell you about ask questions first, then shoot?"_  Dean pulled the trigger.

For a moment, the loud crash made his ears ring. To Dean's surprise, though, the bullet didn't kill the man. Actually, it didn't do anything but rip a hole into the front of the stranger's shirt. The stranger who looked at Dean with eyes that said "I can't believe you shot Bambi". His mouth though said something else. "Stop that! That is my only shirt."

Dean just stood there, mouth agape and eyes squinted tight in expectation of an attack that didn't come. His weapon was cold and heavy and totally useless in his hands.

"Dean, I'd suggest you get out of here. NOW!"

With that, the stranger moved forward and grabbed Dean's arm as if to pull him along with him.

"Hey, no touching!" Dean yelled and shook the hand off, torn between utter confusion and amusement about the demon's fruitless attempts to kidnap him. "This is ridiculous. What kind of a demon are you?"

"Dean, you are only making this harder for yourself," The stranger replied.

"Well, if you know me you also know that I hate the easy way out." Dean chuckled as he moved into a fight mode and beckoned to the stranger.

The stranger sighed and tried again, sounding as if he was trying to lure a child out of a Toy's R Us. "Dean, we need to go."

In response, Dean threw the first punch, getting him straight on the nose.

It didn't even faze the stranger. The man's head tilted backwards and when after straightening it again, he stared in wonder at Dean. "What was that for?"  "My God, this is ridiculous," Dean sighed. "You're the worst demon-in-training I ever met."  "Demon-in-training?"  "Hey, we're supposed to fight now," Dean explained loud and clear now.

 A second later, Dean felt the explosion of a fist on his jaw, sending him stumbling backwards against his still unmoving brother. Another punch hit him in the right eye, followed by a lax, "Can we go _now_?"  Dean hit back and felt mildly satisfied when his fist hit the man right into the stomach. Normal people would now have doubled over in pain, remarkably close to having their lunch reappear. This man...apparently not.  "Dean, please! This is a waste of time."  Which didn't stop Dean from hitting again and again.

His next kick was hard enough to have the man floundering and he had to grip the edge of a bookshelf in order to not fall. This little proof of weakness was definitely more to Dean's liking and he attacked anew when his strike was answered by a series of punches. It felt nice to have an opponent answer in a proper way and since the man didn't show any signs of evil hand mojo, Dean was almost enjoying the little exchange of testosterone while luring the man out of the library and into the hallway. Away from his sleeping little brother.

Pretending to have lost his balance, he tripped hard and landed on his butt, scrambling backwards until he hit the wall. The demon followed, which was exactly what Dean had wanted him to do. The large devil's trap he had drawn on the very first day in this house was well hidden under a worn carpet and Dean expected the man to run against the invisible barrier any second now.

It didn't happen, though. Was it the wrong carpet? Was this some kind of a demon-update? Were they now unfazed by the strong sigil that had once made things a lot easier? _That would be exceptionally bad, _Dean pondered and aimed for his last option.  The bottle of holy water was standing on his nightstand only a few meters away behind the door. Getting up from his sitting position he stumbled around the corner and into his room, grabbing for the small bottle, opening it while rolling over the bed so he would have at least one object between him and the stranger.  The spray of water hit the man into the face and Dean expected, no, _wanted_ to hear him scream and curse but the only it did was making him wet.

Huh, so he could rule out the demonic variety after all. Dean bent over, trying to catch his breath. "Dad sent you, didn't he?"

The stranger—not even huffing—just stood and gazed at Dean. "Uhhm, no."

"Then who the hell are you?"

"I'm an angel."

Dean snorted out loud at what had to have been the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. Angels were way up there along side unicorns. Sam would love that. The stranger stood silent, licking away the water that was dripping down his nose.  "Come again?"

"I'm an angel. You know? Flapping wings, little naked putti with curly hair?"

 Which was the furthest from the truth possible.  Dean took a few seconds to look at the man. Really look at him. And he was surprised that he hadn't realized it earlier. This man, unlike any demons he had met, had style.   He was about 6' feet tall, slender-built with shoulders that were hanging low, as if he was bored. Dark curly hair with every strand lying perfectly styled at its assigned position. His face had remarkably friendly features, brown eyes and soft, tight lips, which made it hard to tell his age. It could've been twenty, it could've been forty. The most surprising thing, though, were his clothes. Under a light beige-coloured jacket, Dean could read the glittering lettering of an R.E.M touring emblem from 2004. In fact, the hole he had made with the bullet was centered in the semi-circle of the R.  "R.E.M?" He couldn't help but burst out amusedly.  "What?" The man shrugged his shoulders. "_The Ascent of Man_ is a sign of God. I swear."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. This being was convinced that he was an angel of the Lord. Angels were myths; they didn't exist. Dean refused to believe that they existed because if they did, why the hell hadn't they jumped in and saved his mother? _She _was the one who first told him about them and had believed in them with all her soul and look how that worked out.

Dean shook his head, "Yeah, whatever. I really appreciate the friendly small talk and all but how about you tell me the truth this time?"

With that, the angel let out a tiny sigh.

 "I have been following you for weeks now and even tried to contact you a few times. You're one hard minded dude, Mister."

 "Contact me? Never heard of a phone?"  "How conventional." The man smirked. "No, I tried the more direct way but you don't seem to listen."  "Listen? I..." Dean stopped, face falling in the moment of understanding. "Wait, you are the voice? Chatting off my ear with all that damn whispering?"

"Well, it was not just me," He defended himself with a pout. "I was chosen to reveal myself to you because you wouldn't listen to us."

"Heck of a way of contacting me! I still would have preferred the phone, man. It feels like I have a freaking baseball stadium in my head." Dean all but screamed, angry now.

Just then, the lights did a lovely display of flickering on and off. Dean immediately turned to go back into the library in order to check on Sam but was stopped as the angel stepped right in front of him, hindering his departure.

"Dean... !"

Dean just shook his head, "No, you listen! I'm not going anywhere. Especially with you. It's snowing heavily outside. And Sam is _a little_ out of it, in case you haven't noticed. Oh, I forgot. You _did_ notice because this is _your fault_."

 "Dean, please ..." The lights went back to flickering and both men looked up.  "I'm staying." Dean answered and tried to push past the man, still wary and expecting a new attack any second. A hand wrapped around his arm and even though Dean itched to respond with another punch, he was sick of dancing around the situation.

 They looked into each other's eyes and Dean swallowed the uneasiness the man's proximity had managed to wake inside of him.  "Let go of me." Dean growled between clenched teeth. "I need to go to my brother."

The hand around his arm was pulled back, slowly, and Dean waited another second before he dared to turn his back to the stranger.  "There's something in the storm," he said when Dean was already out of the room and halfway to the library. The lights were still flickering, a rapid display of electricity-induced lightning and it hurt Dean's eyes. "And it comes closer every second."

Only now could Dean hear the angry howls of the wind again, as if the rush of adrenalin had somehow blanketed the things going on around him. The temperature seemed to have fallen a few degrees, even in the library where the fire was burning merrily in the fireplace.

"Dean, you have got to leave this place NOW! Leave Sam and GO!" The angel repeated, following behind Dean.

"Why? Because of the little storm outside? Hell no." Something heavy hit the house, breaking glass. The impact hard enough that Dean could feel it through the soles of his feet. "Not without Sam."

"You can't save him. You both will die here."  "This is stupid. Stop that," Dean bellowed, surprised at his own rage. "Isn't it more than enough to drive me insane with your freaking mind messing? Now you want me to leave my brother? Fine angel you are."

That seemed to have hit a nerve since the man looked almost apologetic. Then he sighed another of his _The world rests upon my shoulder_-sighs and walked on. "Fine. Let's get Sam. We've got to hurry though. And don't blame me if you get hit over the head by an angry whizzing tree trunk and die from a skull fracture."

"You're one shiny little happy pill, aren't you?"

Dean led the way back into the library where Sam was still sleeping peacefully with his head pillowed on books and an arm. As he reached the table, Dean couldn't help but think to himself that this was a first in a long time that he had actually seen Sam sleep without the nightmares or worries that usually plagued his sleep.

But it didn't help his situation, which meant they needed Sam awake and kicking.  "Wake him!" Dean demanded with the most menacing tone he could muster.  "I can't."  "What? You can't or don't want to?"  "Look, Dean..."  "No, you look. This is nuts. This is really nuts. Just wake him up and we're out of here. Where's the problem?"

Sam didn't even twitch at Dean's angry voice.

"Sam must not be allowed to awaken. The... being... get stronger by feeding on his energy, which is at its peak when he is awake."

"Wh...what?"  That was just crazy shit load and Dean knew it. Or at least hoped so. Pinching his arm again, he regretted not waking up again.  "You're not asleep. And you're as sane as I am."  "Well, that's comforting, Mr. Basket Case." He replied and gestured to the angel to come and help him with Sam. "Could you at least help me get him to the car?"  As much as Dean didn't want the angel to even be near Sam—much less touch him—Dean knew that he couldn't get Sam safely to the Impala all by himself with the storm raging outside.

Dean took hold of Sam's upper body while the angel took hold of Sam's legs. Finally, with a nod to the angel, Dean led the way to the Impala, struggling against the heavy winds whose strength felt like hundreds of thousands of fingernails scratching on Dean's skin. Despite the Impala being parked a relatively short distance away from the front door, the walk seemed like miles.

Just as the three of them finally reached the Impala, a large branch fell on to the wind shield, smashing it as another one was launched at them. Dean and the angel immediately lowered Sam to the ground in order to protect him. Dean turned to see if the coast was clear and was surprised to see the angel standing in front of him—protecting him as he was protecting Sam.

"Hey, you know that you don't need to protect me," He yelled over the gusts of wind roaring above their heads.

"It is my task to protect you from harm," The man replied. He stoically stood on guard as his jacket flapped frantically in the wind.

Not even a second later, a huge, thick branch came spinning out of control towards them. Immediately, the angel straightened up and absorbed the hit as if it were nothing. The branch pierced his side and to Dean's shock, the stranger wasn't fazed.

"Are you okay?" Dean yelled from his position lying on top of Sam where he had thrown himself to protect his sleeping sibling from the flying wood.

 There was no reply, just a disbelieving glance down his body and a mildly annoyed frown. "Great! That was my favourite shirt." He tucked at the branch, pulling it out of his body. There was a small amount of blood from what Dean could see but not enough to be life threatening, not even if it had hit a human.

A few minutes later, the wind had died down, as had the wooden missiles. Still lying over Sam, Dean felt safe enough to get up and approach the self-appointed angel who was still standing in the same position he had assumed when they had reached the Impala.

"You okay?" Dean repeated as the angel slowly turned around to look at the damaged car for the first time.

"You can't drive like this."  "Ya think?" Dean yelled back and bit back another tirade of cussing. Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean glanced at his four-wheeled baby whose wind shield was smashed, and sighed in sympathy.   "We're sitting ducks out here," he snarled and grabbed Sam's torso again to stagger toward the house.

The angel wannabe nodded and picked up Sam's other arm.

Like hungry wolves, the storm was howling around them. Dean pinched his eyes against the biting cold. Snowflakes were stuck on his eyelashes and he tried to blink them away since he had his hands full with his brother's weight. Still supporting Sam's other side, the angel was barely visible, and when Dean yelled at him, his voice was almost swallowed by the ruckus around him.

"Back into the house!"

The angel must have understood, since they moved simultaneously into the same direction where Dean presumed the building to be, even though he couldn't really see it. The snow was melting in his shoes and in his soaked jeans, creating an icy and slippery substance in his socks. It was disgusting and freezing and Dean swore himself they were only taking jobs in Florida from now on. Somewhere warm. Hell fires sounded like Heaven for a moment.

Leaning heavily against the wind, the trek back to the house seemed to last for ages and only the dead weight of his brother made Dean stumble on tiredly. Luck, though, was on their side for a change because when they finally neared the building, they were actually right in front of the main entrance, where the door was wide open, the oak portal forcefully swinging open and close like it was a ball of wool in the paws of a little kitten. It almost hit him when he came close enough to hold it open for them.

"Go!" he ordered the angel to go in first and his brother's weight was lifted from him when he grabbed for the door to pull it closed behind them.

Unfortunately, it didn't get any warmer when he finally managed to shut the door. Instead, the only benefit was that the entrance hall in complete darkness, only disturbed by the stranger's heavy breathing. _Since when do angels have to breathe anyway?_

"Fine angel you are!" snorted Dean. He blinked a few times, hoping to make his eyes get used to the darkness faster but it didn't accomplish anything but a sudden rush of dizziness. "Don't you usually make frogs rain and oceans divide? What about you do your mojo about that storm out there like...say...now?" He didn't wait for an answer but stumbled on until his feet hit the side of someone's hip. Leaning down, he grabbed into the slowly receding darkness and lifted Sam back into his arms. "At least you could help me get him back into the library."

"I don't think..."

"Shut up, Casper!"

"Casper?"

"Forget it!"

"I'm not..."

Dean interrupted him impatiently, ruffling through his hair in utter annoyance "You do have a name, right?"

"Should I?"

Sam's weight lessened when indeed the other man took his brother's other arm.

"I don't know. You tell me! You're the freaking angel expert here."

"You sound angry."

In the distance, Dean could see the door frame of the library still illuminated by the light they hadn't switched off when they left the room. He hoped the fire hadn't burned down already. They were freezing and needed the warmth now more than ever. His brother's skin was cold and clammy under his fingers and the closer he got to the light, the more he realized that they were still covered in melting snow. It was running along Sam's neck and down his collar where it probably did not feel very comfortable. Not even when you were a sleeping giant unaware of being dragged through an unstable building while an avalanche seemed to want to stomp the house so deep it came out in hell.

"Angry? Me? Naaaah!" Oh, Dean was almost proud of how convincing he sounded. They had finally entered the library and he let Sam sink to the floor, cradling Sam's head before it could bump on the floor. Carefully, he pulled him a few inches closer to warmth before reaching for a few logs and putting them into the red glowing ashes. To his relief, the dry material crackled hungrily and a moment later, small flames were reaching up, appreciating the offered feed and thereby sending new waves of heat.

Finally, Dean let himself sink down next to his brother and put his hand on Sam's chest where he found a steady beat and the repeated movements of breathing. Almost—_almost_—he was jealous of Sam of not having to endure the miserable companion who was standing next to him like a grumpy old man he who had missed his very last bus.

"I'm not angry." Dean repeated. "Just...mildly irritated."

"Uhuuh!" The man nodded and looked so much like he wanted to add: "And how do you feel about that?" that Dean almost started laughing. It must have shown on his face because the man asked. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Dean answered and quickly averted his eyes to study his brother's sleeping form. "So, what am I supposed to call you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Casper..." He pronounced the name extra clear and his opponent made an offended face.

"Okay, I get it. Stop calling me like I'm transparent. Foremost, I'm _not_ a ghost. You of all people should know that." Dean rolled his eyes. "And I actually do have more than four fingers on one hand."

Dean needed a few seconds before he understood that the angel actually knew what he was talking about.

"Wait! How come you know Casper? You got cable up there?" He made a gesture up.

"And how come you give me strange names of fictional characters?" The angel replied with a counter question.

"Okay, that's it!" Dean yelled and was surprised when the storm appeared to answer with a loud howling. "Stop playing games!" Slowly but surely this whole scene was getting surreal. "I want to know what the hell is going on here. Why can't you just wake up Sam? Running would be much easier if I didn't have to carry him around, you know."

"I told you I can't. It'd make things worse."

"Oh, worse?" Dean shrugged, noncommittally. "Worse than this?"

"Oh yes!" The angel replied.

There was a loud crashing noise from somewhere inside the house and seconds later, a cold wind swept over them. A window had shattered, letting the furious draught inside like a mob of starving people searching for food. The fire shrunk considerately and the temperature dropped a few degrees until Dean could see his breath form little clouds in front of his mouth. Quickly, he got up to close the door.

"This won't be sufficient, Dean." The angel said, sounding like a patient father with his son.

"It's a door and it will be closed. That's sufficient enough if you ask me." He returned back to Sam and poked around in the fire to get it back to burning. "So, it looks like I'm going to be stuck with you, here, for a while. So, how am I supposed to call you?"

"Well, you're showing a certain affinity to the name of Casper."

"That's not funny."

The angel snickered. "Matter of perspective."

"You're getting on my nerves."

Again, the angel grinned. "You're welcome." He sobered and looked around when his eyes fell on the stack of vinyl records that lay scattered in a shelf. "You can call me... Bob. Bob Marvin."

"You're serious?"

"Bob Dylan and Marvin Gaye were excellent singers and songwriters."

"Bob Marvin?" Dean sighed heavily. "Sure, why not. A name as good as any." It made no sense to be surprised about anything any more, Dean thought, and his gaze wandered back to the window. Behind the glass, the darkness was only disturbed by the twirling snowflakes rushing by so fast that the view could totally pass as a TV test pattern in the early morning hours. So, they had fire, an entertaining TV program and bad company. A night like any other, it seemed.

Except that the lights decided to start to flicker vehemently again, only to go out with a hiss. With the darkness came back voices, whispering, taunting and more than a little disturbing.

"Dude, could we please stop that whole whispering now. I can hear you just fine." Dean complained, even though deep down he had already guessed that it wasn't the angel who was responsible for the eerie sounds. His assumption was confirmed a second later.

"Sorry, Dean. But that's not my doing. And it's not anyone of the others either."

"Others?"

"Yes, Dean, others. Or do you think I'm the only angel in this hemisphere?"

"A man can hope..." muttered Dean. But he was still hearing voices and that fact did nothing to assure him. Maybe he still was going crazy and hearing angels was just a credible excuse for the time being. Now though...

A steady breeze filled the air even though the room they were in was still mostly secure. The wind outside was still picking up, hammering against the house, whistling through gaps between the windows and walls. Listening intently, he could hear a certain rhythm in it, a pattern, like music. Rattling, whooshing, scraping like someone was shaking a rice filled tin can. Words spoken in urgent whispers. A foreign language that Dean couldn't decipher.

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He really had thought the whole spook thing was over. At first, he had only heard the angels talking, which in itself was grotesque enough for his liking but now there were still voices. Questioningly, he looked at Bob Marvin, who looked about as worried as Dean felt and apparently had disturbing ability to read minds.

"You're not crazy. I can hear them too."

"What? You do?"

"Yes, and I assure you it has got nothing to do with us."

"_Us_ being you and your angel bros, you said that already."

"When you say it like that, it sounds awfully incriminating, you know?" Bob pointed his finger in Dean's direction.

"Fine, strike me with lightening, Boooob." Dean said, lengthening the 'o' in an almost obscene way. "God help me. I'm stuck with an angel who likes to hear himself talk. _Awesome_."

"Don't you think He knows who He set you up with? And I already regret having chosen that name." Bob sighed and stood up swiftly. "I'm afraid we can't stay here."

"What? Why not?"

In this moment, the window exploded inwards with a deafening crash. The fire was put out by a single blow of icy wind, taking the last source of light with it.


	4. Chapter 4

**PART FOUR**

"Okay, I get your point," Dean yelled and without further ado grabbed Sam's arm to pull him upright. "Help me!"

Both men took Sam back in their midst and stumbled towards the door.

"This still would be so much easier if Sam were awake," Dean complained anew. He didn't like Sam being unconscious. It made him vulnerable and vulnerable was not a condition Dean liked his brother to be in.

"How often do I have to tell you I can't do anything about it?"

"Until you find a reasonable explanation to go with that."

They were back to yelling at each other since the wind was so strong it made Dean's clothes flutter. When he opened his mouth to speak, it felt like icy fingers were reaching down his throat to rip his lungs out. Darkness didn't make things easier and even though he had already spent a few days within these walls, orientation was difficult when the world spun around them.

A lamp was hurled alongside of Dean, crashing against a large clothes cabinet. After only a dozen yards, Dean had gotten lost in the numerous hallways and edges and niches of the house. There was no room they could hide in. No safety they could retreat to and Dean started to think they would wander on until a bulky beam would fall on their heads and end their misery. Great plan.

"Basement!" Bob screamed, pulling both Sam and Dean into another direction.

Dean had refrained to stumble blindly. It was impossible to see anything and there was nothing left to do but trust in the stranger who seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Seconds later, they opened another door. One that Dean was sure he had never walked through before. Stairs were leading downwards and Dean stumbled behind Bob, trying his best to walk instead of fall. The stale smell of cold, unused air with a swampy sub-tone hit him in the face and he recoiled, gagging, almost losing his grip on his brother's arms. Hastily, he regained his equilibrium and concentrated on taking one step after the other until his feet hit the floor, which was slightly grainy and slippery.

"We need light!" Dean said and, promptly, a sharp beam of white brightened his surroundings coming from a flashlight in Bob's hand.

"Sorry, I tend to forget how awfully clumsy human beings can be when they're confronted with the lack of light," Bob excused and in his voice dripped with both amusement and pity.

"We need to be on the Bahamas with Cuba Libres and little umbrellas in the glass," Dean went on.

"Hey, I'm not your fairy tale fairy," Bob replied, now actually annoyed. "This way!"

He led the way, guiding Dean through the first room, which was full of stored furniture. Some were covered with sheets, some not. But all were collecting dust like bees with honey. There were chairs with broken legs, cracked mirrors, cupboards missing or on laughable hinges hanging doors. A few of them fell in front of their feet and Dean did his best to avoid being hit or get clobbered over the head with a gung-ho chandelier missing light bulbs and candles that was hanging low from the ceiling, black with rust and dirt.

The entrance door behind them was destroyed with a loud crash and Dean turned around quickly, on time to see a figure come down the wooden stairs. Though it wasn't a solid figure. It was more like a...a swirl of wind that had collected so much dust and dirt that it looked almost like it had grown a body. The embodiment of a natural tornado and Dean was reminded of the cartoon animal of the Tasmanian Devil, whose destruction resulted from a mixture of blind rage and stupidity.

"What...!" He yelled but Bob only lengthened his strides and walked through another door.

The floor beneath Dean shook and the ceiling over his head groaned under the attack of the invisible power of the storm.

"This is not a regular storm!" Dean yelled and warily eyed the tools hanging on plain nails on the walls. The hammers and garden clippers and saws were swinging precariously from one side to the other, falling to the ground one by one. "When we're not endangered by accidental beheading, I want to know what's going on."

"The souls, you dumbass." This time Dean had no doubts. Bob was being pissed off. "The souls in the woods out there."

"What souls?"

He felt himself shoved into another room. A room that was small enough to not deserve to be named a room.

"This is a cupboard!" Dean complained appalled and if looks could kill, the angel would have fallen dead where he was standing. "You don't actually want us hide in a cupboard."

The next door was taken off its hinges and various tools were shooting through the air like missiles, getting stuck in the sturdy door only inches away from where Sam's head had been seconds before.

"Okay, I get the point!" Dean admitted and entered the small but sturdy looking compartment. Bob followed, closing the door behind them.

The dimensions weren't larger than eight times twelve feet and ancient furry cloaks were hanging on two wooden rods, wrapped in plastic. It smelled like mouldy clothes and mothballs. The wooden walls surrounding them were strong and thick, not the usual chipboard quality that was common practice today. This one was old, with a robustness of real craftmanship. Dean was sure it would keep them safe for a while. The door was closed from the inside with metallic clamps on the top and the bottom. Still the door was rattling under the impacts of the storm.

Breathlessly, Dean let Sam sink down on the ground and leaned his upper body against the wall so he wouldn't fall sideways.

"So, what souls?" Dean asked again, when he had gotten his breathing under control and sat down next to brother, one knee bent to put his arm upon.

"Didn't Sam tell you?"

Dean only glanced at his brother. Sam's mouth was slightly open and he could hear his soft breathing. His hair was ruffled, his clothes crinkled, his face dirty but relaxed and peaceful.

"My brother tends to _not talk_ he's being kept unconscious which...by the way...WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?" Dean flared up.

Bob's face didn't even twitch and he copied Dean's posture on the other end of the cabinet. His facade did crumble a little, though, when he answered. "Your brother..." It could have been the light of the torch but Dean could have sworn Bob made a painful grimace. "He gives me an itch."

"Uh...okay? I'd be thankful if you didn't scratch."

"You're one weird human being, you know that?"

"Sure, I tend to hear that a lot."

A tense silence rained down on them but turned out it was just a mixture of dust, chipped wood and said moth powder.

"So, spill. Why Sam?" The door rattled and Dean held the door closed even though they had barricaded themselves already pretty well.

"You're asking the wrong questions, Dean." Bob answered.

"Look, I have a long list and it doesn't look like we can go anywhere any time soon." His finger knocked again the door. "So, since we have some time and such a cuddly atmosphere, why don't you start to tell me, why there's a tornado out there trying to do us in?"

"It's the souls, I told you."

"Whose?"

"Just souls. Old ones. Angry ones. It's not their fault they're being held here." Bob sighed dramatically and Dean felt like a schoolboy who was asking the same question a third time. "That's what your brother was researching about when I...visited him. I'm pretty sure he could explain it much better than I could. I'm bad with words and explaining and stuff."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Really? Who'd have thought? Unfortunately, all Sam's notes are upstairs, blown to confetti."

"I could try to get them for you?" Bob looked clearly uncomfortable now and he was glaring at the confined walls like a caged animal. He shrugged his shoulders when he noticed Dean's amused gaze. "I have a problem with small spaces."

"A narcissistic _and_ claustrophobic angel. God must hate us really much, Sam." Dean said to his unconscious brother and when he turned back towards Bob, the angel was gone.

"Awesome!" Dean ground out and after he made sure that the cabinet they were in was still more or less intact, he fought himself back on his feet and looked through the clothes.

After the exhausting trek downstairs, now the cold got an issue again. His fingers were getting stiff and he was sure he'd be losing at least a toe or two. His teeth begun to shatter and Sam had started to get alarmingly pale. Only dressed with long-sleeved shirts, they would freeze to death...though only if they didn't get slain or ripped apart first.

Quickly, Dean collected all the cloaks he could reach and tore them down, ripping away the protecting bags and spreading one behind Sam's back, the other one under his legs. He wrapped two more cloaks around his brother's torso. Only then did he grab for another jacket for himself. The smell made his nose itch and his eyes water, but it was warm. After dumping the rest of the clothing around them to trap as much warmth as possible, he finally sunk back on the floor and grabbed for the flashlight, turning it off to save batteries.

"You're missing all the fun here, Sammy." He whispered, exhausted. "And I'm so going to have a talk with that idiot of an angel about that itch thing, I promise."

"I can hear you. You know?"

"Bob!" Dean yelped at least one octave over his natural pitch of voice and felt himself blushing before the sound had echoed out of existence. "Stop doing that!"

"Sorry, I should have knocked." That, of course, was clearly a sarcastic offer since the cabinet was being hit louder and more forcefully than a stoned, unfaithful wife during the Middle Ages. "I got the notes. Or at least what left of them."

Switching the flashlight back on, Dean took the pile of loose paper and started searching through it, looking for the ones Sam had written his notes on. He discovered them between some excerpts of a dictionary and quickly read through them, cursing not for the first time about Sam's experimental handwriting that looked more like stenography than anything else. But after a few minutes he managed to get the scrambled information in an order that made at least some sense.

It didn't surprise Dean that the whole area was known to attract strange weather. People usually believed it was because of the high mountains in the northern and western ranges. The weather phenomena happened a few times a year, not necessarily at the same times but their arrival tended to be more often during fall and winter, rarely during the summer months. This in itself was nothing to get curious about, until Dean recognized Sam's handwriting on an old news article about the occupation of the house by a group of new age hippies, who were rumoured to perform strange rituals in the adjacent woods. Another news article, almost forty years later when the house was used as a youth hostel, reported about a number of missing teenagers who got lost in on of the blizzards.

It wasn't much to work with but Sam with his brain as big as Minnesota had obviously connected those incidents. The words NIYA SICA were written in capital letters next to the article.

"Niya Sica?" Dean read aloud, adjusting his cloak closer around his neck. Breath was condensing in front of his lips and he was appeased when he could also see little clouds of breath forming in front of Sam's. "What does that mean?"

"Evil breath."

Dean paused, holding his hand in front of his mouth and blew into it, sniffing like he wanted to check for bad breath.

"No," Bob rolled his eyes. "Breath as in wind. They mean the wind. There's something in the wind. It's filled with the souls of the ancient ones, the forefathers."

"Uhuuh!" Dean nodded. "Nice. Couldn't those people—" he gestured at the news article about the Native Americans. "—just invite them for a BBQ and bury the hatchet?"

"There is not hatchet to bury. They just tried to communicate with their ancestors whom this land be belonged to once. Maybe they even tried to appease them."

"Well, if they did they weren't very successful, were they?"

"No," Bob answered and worriedly eyed the door that was rattling while the "Evil Breath" was rioting right in front of their safe haven. "Obviously not."

"So, how do we stop them?"

"We can't."

These words didn't belong to Dean's vocabulary and he looked at the angel suspiciously. "There's always something we can do. Salt and burn their bones."

"There are no bones to salt and burn. They aren't ghosts. They are just distant echoes of the lives once lived. You can't destroy, burn or kill this."

"Then," Dean reasoned "...we should destroy the object they're tied to. There's got to be..."

"There isn't one, Dean!" Bob interrupted, now serious and with all the conviction he could muster. "You don't understand. These souls? They _are_ the wind. They are pure energy. And they just _are_. They return every few months just to show they're still there. Like a charged battery that empties in a rush and then needs months to recharge. I know you're good in what you do but you can't fight the wind. Even Cervantes knew that."

"Cervantes?" Dean asked, confused. Not even sure he wanted an answer.

"Don Quichote?" Bob offered as an explanation, Dean's face not losing any of its bafflement. "You know, the guy fighting windmills? Okay forget what I said."

"But..." Dean looked at his peacefully sleeping brother. "Then what do we do? I can't just sit around and wait for the souls out there to end their temper tantrum. And..." He snapped, the last word coming out loud, as if he'd only just thought of it. "...what has it got to do with Sam? Why would it be worse if he was awake?"

"Dean..."

"NO! I want you to tell me!" He yelled, his anger now boiling hot in his stomach. He wondered whether an angel would choke if a coat hanger was stuffed down his throat. "You can't expect to stalk me for months and months and then show up all of a sudden to play the mysterious Samaritan with wings, crack some shitty jokes and then ride into the sunset. Whoopee! Day saved. That's not how it works."

"It could if you weren't such a Mr. Smarty Pants."

"You are one strange angel, Bob!" Dean shot back but didn't lose any of his anger. "Tell me what it's got to do with my brother."

Blindly, he searched for Sam's arm under all the furry cover and squeezed it gently when he found it.

"Sam," the angel begun with a soft voice."...is touched by evil, Dean."

"That is not true!" Dean answer, his voice laced with anger.

"It is! But..."

"No, this can't be. Sam is the purest person I know. Hell, he saves kittens from a tree and breaks his arms in the process. He..." Dean searched for the right words. "He would rather die than let anything happen to me or...any person on the fucking ungrateful planet. Once, he already did." His fingers dug harder into his brother's skin.

"That's true." Bob affirmed. "That doesn't stop a person from being unwillingly touched by something he has no control over."

"But...this is Sam. Sammy." Dean didn't dare looking at his dialogue partner in the yellow beam of the flashlight. "He's my brother."

"As was Romulus to Remus." Bob sighed again and Dean had the impression he was really sorry about what he had had to say. "Look, Dean. I know you love him and I do not deny that your brother loves you in return. Heck, you'd make a great couple, seriously."

Dean shook his head in disgust. "You're so going to Hell for that."

"Anyway," Bob said ignoring Dean's remark. "I don't have anything against Sam. On the contrary. But his powers...give me an itch. And not just me. I can't explain. They're what the souls out there are seeking." He motioned to the outside of the closet.

Dean didn't even hear the noise any more that was made by flying tools and falling stones and crumbling walls.

"His powers are like the light in the darkness. Or, to be more precise, the soothing darkness in the everlasting light. Those souls are searching for quiet and peace and Sam's powers are strong. Strong enough, in fact, to give them what they want. But I'm not sure what it would take Sam to give that gift."

"So, you're protecting him?"

"Yes. Him and you."

Dean pondered, letting the information settle in. "That is the stupidest explanation I've ever heard. You're an _angel_ for God's sake, pun totally intended. Do something. If you don't, I will."

"I understand your mistrust, Dean. I really do. But this is the only explanation you'll get. I'm sorry, Dean. There are just things you _can't_ change. Wars you can't end and battles you can't win. As much as your ego would like you to be, you are not almighty. You're human."

Somehow, Dean doubted the angel was only talking about Sam and the situation they found themselves in. Another awkward silence ensued and Dean felt a headache rising with the information that had fallen on him like an anvil on the roadrunner.

"You are safe in here. The closet should be stable enough to withstand the storm, I made sure of it. I'll try to do something to distract them, but the storm should tire out in the morning, at the latest, without my interference," The angel finally offered but his voice didn't hold a lot of conviction of being successful.

There wasn't any sound when he vanished, just like that. Leaving an empty space where only a second ago a man had sat. And for Dean, nothing else could be done other than waiting and listening to the sounds of whole tornadoes sweeping away everything in its way, searching for their light or darkness.

"Almighty angel, my ass," Dean grumbled and sank lower into the self-made cushions.

-o-

Sometime in the early morning hours, Bob must have popped back in because when Dean opened his eyes, rotating his neck with a painful grimace, he stared into the mildly amused face of the angel.

"Sleep well?"

Dean felt warm under the countless layers of fur and he quickly looked for Sam, putting a hand on his brother's cheek to feel the warm skin and the light breath on his fingers. His thoughts were still a muddled mess, his eyes still blurry with exhaustion and sleep that was—though very blissful—still not enough to shush away the burning fatigue they had both suffered over the last weeks and months. But Sam seemed alright and all of a sudden, Dean realized the quiet around them. Not just in his head, but also outside of their little hiding place.

"The storm has receded. The souls are tired now."

"That is..." Dean groaned and pushed himself into the air, fumbling with the lock of the door. A sudden claustrophobia made his fingers shake and the air paste-like. "That is nice, Bob."

The door finally gave way...about three inches before it hit something hard and didn't open any further. However, it was enough to make fresh air stream into the cabinet. A biting cold yet not cold enough to make him close the door again. Bright, clear day light fell in a sharp beam into Dean's eyes and he blinked owlishly. He felt giddy, like he hadn't seen sunlight for weeks. But the door wouldn't budge any farther, which brought Bob to childish giggles and Dean to fury.

"This is not funny," Dean grumbled between clenched teeth. "I could use a little help here."

"Okay, okay," Bob replied and vanished. Only seconds later, the door swung open to reveal the proverbial battleground. Only now, Dean's brain had caught up with him and he squinted into the air, where the ceiling of the basement should have been. Huge gaps were scattered on both walls and even ceilings. The one from the basement as well as the roof, which meant Dean could see right through two floors into the sky. The remains of the building, or what was still standing of it, was groaning and whining around him and the wind was whizzing through the broken leftovers of the house.

"What the Hell?" Dean yelled, his mouth hanging open. "What did these souls do? Bring a wrecking ball?"

Bob stepped beside him, letting his gaze sweep over the chaotic arrangement and clapping his hands as if having accomplished an important task. "Not bad for a night's work." He said and grinned. It looked like he had the fun of his life.

"I know, I'm repeating myself, but you are really, really strange," Dean replied without looking at Bob. "Now what? I'm not sure we can carry out Sam out of this hole."

"You don't have to. He'll be waking up soon."

Relief seeped through Dean and he looked back at the closet where Sam was still sleeping. "I'd say thanks but I won't since you're the one who put him to sleep at first place."

"You're welcome."

Dean huffed. "Actually, I'd like to not see you again anytime soon."

"I can't promise that."

"Why did I know you'd say that?"

"Because you're really smart?"

"Drop the question mark, would ya?"

Bob didn't answer and when Dean wanted to glare at him, the angel was gone.

"Dean?" A small, confused voice sounded from behind him, dampened by layers and layers of coat and fur. "Dean?" This time, the voice was stronger but also more panicked.

"Sam?" Hastily, Dean rushed back and opened the door to look at his brother who was blinking at him with big, dazed eyes.

"What the...? Please tell me you have a good explanation," Sam murmured, his tongue still heavy with sleep and Dean couldn't help himself. At the sight of his brother's lethargic confusion, a large grin split his face. Reaching out his arm, he grabbed Sam's outstretched hand before pulling him up, supporting him when Sam's legs faltered from not being used for a while.

"Careful, Sasquatch," Dean lectured, good-tempered. "You need your legs to get out of here." Sam's jaw dropped when he saw what Dean referred to and they started climbing, sending broken furniture tumbling and loose earth falling until they finally stood back on solid ground.

Where once had been a house was now a skeleton of frames and bulks was swaying, some walls still crackling as they watched, amazed. Enough snow had fallen to cover everything with a ten-inch high blanket of white. A ridiculous Christmas tree in a snowy winter wonderland. The air was crisp and fresh, cleaned by the night's turbulences. Everything lay in ruins. Devastatingly so. Searching for their stuff in there would be a bitch.

Sam swallowed. "Don't tell me we've been in there when this..." He made a gesture towards the demolished remains. "...happened."

"Well..." Dean began but stopped when the reality struck him. This night, they had a house fall upon them and they didn't even have a scratch. Not even a frozen toe. "I guess we had a guardian angel."

To his surprise, Sam laughed, then held his head as if in pain. "I must have hit my head pretty hard for sleeping through this all. What happened?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "Uhm, you kinda got hit over the head..." ... _by an angel_. He added without speaking it out loud.

"What do you mean? _Kinda_?"

"That is a long story." He patted Sam's shoulder and turned around to search for the car that luckily had been parked far enough away to not be further harmed by falling debris. Except that the broken window had caused snow and twigs and other things that did not belong in a car had collected on both of the front seats.

He could feel Sam's gaze on his back when he stared at his baby, fury rising like well-shaken soda.

"Looks like the car could have used a guardian angel too," Sam said, really not helpful at all and Dean blinked. He would so have a talk with Bob about that when he saw him again.


End file.
